Seven Sinners
by dancer4ver
Summary: Remember me. Touch me. Know me. Fear me. Give me. Feed me. Leave me. These are the cries of those that suffer. Rated T for language and sexual content. Chapter 7, Romano: Sloth.
1. Prussia: Envy

**A/N:** Sometimes I just get an idea that I can't lose until I write it down. This one came out of nowhere and it kept bugging me until I came up with this. I've always wanted to write about the Seven Deadly Sins and I'm glad I finally found a way to do so. Never knew it would Hetalia though, haha. Anyway, please enjoy~

**Disclaimer**: **Hetalia is not mine D:**

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_Seven Sinners:_

_Prussia_

_Envy_

His most frequent nightmare was that of a glass wall that stretched farther than he could walk and higher than he could reach. There was no way over, under, or around. He could only see through; could see them clearly as they moved around in their pleasurable ignorance.

They couldn't see him.

He could hear them as they talked, whispered, yelled. But they couldn't hear him.

"Hey assholes!" He pounded uselessly on the glass. "Don't you dare ignore me!"

No one looked up. No one even flinched. Because no one had heard _anything_.

He yelled louder, clenched fists smashing repeatedly against the impenetrable wall until each strike left behind a blood smear.

"You bastards! You losers! How can you ignore _me?_ I'm awesome! I'm amazing! I'm...!" Who was he? Could he even remember his name?

He grasped for it in the dark corners of his mind until he fell to his knees in frustration.

"I hate you all." He screamed against the glass. Every single one them as they streamed past his line of vision, eager to meet with their bosses. As they laughed at the meetings that he was no longer allowed to attend. He hated them. But more than anything, he wanted to _be_ them.

But he couldn't. Because he couldn't remember his name. Because of the glass.

Prussia's eyes snapped open and he almost cried out until his vision adjusted to the colors of the dark and he felt the light weight of France's arm across his chest.

The last question from the dream hung in the air. His name. What was his name?

"Prussia." He whispered in the dark. "Prussia."

He reached out to grasp France's shoulder, shaking the other man awake.

"What? What? Are the revolutionaries here?" France groaned, half asleep.

"France! France! Wake up!" Prussia hissed, shaking him harder.

"I'm awake! I'm awake! What do you want?" France snapped, irritated that his beauty sleep had been disturbed.

"What's my name?"

France stared at him a long time before he said, "You've got to be kidding me..."

"Dude, I'm fucking serious. What's my name? Just tell me." He was almost begging.

France sighed, but he heard the faint whine in Prussia's voice and relented. "Prussia. Your name is Prussia."

"And am I awesome?"

"Yes, you are awesome. Happy now?"

Prussia sighed and leaned back into the pillows. "Yeah."

Mostly awake now, France leaned closer; fingers trailing though silver colored locks. "So what was that all about?"

Prussia shook his head. "Nothing. Bad dream. It was stupid. You can go back to sleep."

France's hands were becoming more comfortable as they began to move increasingly lower.

"Since I'm already awake, we might as well..." He whispered, warm breath tickling down Prussia's neck. Wordlessly, Prussia submitted himself—letting the pleasure push away the fear.

The moans and gasps that left his mouth let him know that he was here. Nation or not. He was here.

At least for now.

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The world needs more Prussia/France. Like seriously. Let me know what you think and whether I should keep going. Lust is scheduled next (any guess who that might be?)

With love

-dancer


	2. England: Lust

**A/N:** Thanks to those who reviewed/faved/ put this story on their alerts list. I'm very grateful. Please enjoy the next chapter~

**Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine -sulk-**

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_Seven Sinners:_

_England_

_Lust_

England had always considered himself a gentleman and gentlemen always knew where the line was.

But as his head hit the pillow and his tongue worked to explore every inch of America's mouth, he thought that perhaps he wasn't so sure anymore.

He had thought that he would die—that the fire within him would burn until he was only forgotten ashes. His attempts to contain the inferno—those endless nights in the bathroom, on his bed—had left him unsatisfied and done nothing but stoke the flames.

What was worse was the humiliation after he was done. The washer was always full of his stained sheets and towels and the trash cans seemed to be forever overflowing with the sickening combination of tissues and paper napkins.

Everyone knew it. They had to know it. When he walked down the street, sat at those boring world meetings across from _him_, he could feel the stinging heat that sat permanently on his cheeks. He had felt as if the whole world could see beneath the calm exterior how he writhed and ached for simple release.

It came in the most unexpected way. A simple, _innocent_ dinner invitation had turned into an animalistic rutting session that had left both him and America flushed and breathless on the kitchen floor. That had been the first time that he had lost control, the first time the line had suddenly blurred before his eyes.

The next time, he had barely kept himself together as the sensuous tempo at which the two bodies met threatened to take him once again over the edge.

His appetite was insatiable. Days in bed. A week with no outside contact until Germany or France came pounding on his door with demands that he and America attend the scheduled meetings at once (that was Germany) or that they let him join in (that was France).

.

.

.

It was never enough.

"More…please more." He gasped, America working to keep up with the frantic demands.

_Faster. Harder._ England had no limits.

Even when he took the reins himself, rocking his body with such force that he was sure America's eyes would fall out of his head, he was always left wanting more.

Unless there was a national emergency, there was never a "not tonight." No moment was never not perfect. England was never content.

America hissed as England's nails trailed jagged lines down his back, adding to the numerous others that had accumulated and scarred over the past weeks.

Even as he reached his climax and his mouth fell open in a soundless scream, England knew—after they had fallen back onto the sheets, the only sounds in the room their ragged breathing—that it was time, only a matter of time, before the fire relit anew and the ache and the want would come rushing back.

"England? Do you love me?" America's voice was soft and uncharacteristically shy as he asked the question that had been hanging on the tip of his tongue.

Lust and love. He had lost his ability to differentiate between the two, but he gave America his most genuine smile as he answered, "Yes." He opened his arms to let the other man in, deciding for once that, yes, he could wait. He would not let the fire burn out of control.

The line was there and he hovered dangerously over it. But he had not crossed it. Not today.

Tomorrow would bring another fight.

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**A/N:** Again, let me know how you feel about the story. Feedback keeps me going strong! Pride is scheduled next. Any guesses?

With love

-dancer


	3. America: Pride

**A/N**: I'm really enjoying writing this. Thanks again to those that provide feedback and such~ Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, Batman, Wolverine, or Harry Potter :(**

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_Seven Sinners:_

_America_

_Pride_

There were heroes and then there were _super_ heroes. There were world powers and then there were _super_ powers. Since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, America had stood alone at the top of this hierarchy.

Praise was expected, but his prominent position never stopped others from "commenting", unfortunately.

"Don't let it go to your head, brat. Even the Roman Empire fell." England always enjoyed telling him. Usually after sex because for some reason, politics always came after passion for the two of them.

America considered this extremely unhealthy for their relationship.

"You know, I think I read somewhere that scowling makes eyebrows grow faster." America usually said something of the sort in response to England's barbs.

Much screeching and insults always followed.

And then there was Canada, who—when he felt it was safe to discuss—never minced words when it came to listing America's negative points.

"Perhaps if you weren't always so loud and pushy you would have more friends." Canada casually remarked after a particularly bruising game of baseball. He and America lay sprawled on the grass, watching the slowly sinking sun.

"I have friends!" America shot back. "I have England…usually…and you—"Canada cut him off.

"Family doesn't count. I don't even know if England counts since you two are…well…you know."

America huffed. "Well who really cares anyway? How many friends did Batman have? Or Wolverine? Sidekicks and teammates don't count!"

Canada sighed, tossing the baseball back and forth between hands—resisting the urge to aim it at the back of America's head. He could only imagine that it would make a hollow "thwack" upon impact.

"You can't use those as examples." He said.

"Why not?" America was on his feet now, bouncing on his heels in excitement. "They're Superheroes and I'm a Super Power!"

Canada rolled his eyes. "For now." He whispered underneath his breath.

"What was that?" America's voice was light, but the setting sun cast an eerie shadow over his face. Canada shivered.

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Canada hoisted himself up, casually brushing invisible blades of grass off his pants. "Just try to calm down. You've already got a bit of a cold."

America laughed and Canada winced at the booming sound.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be back to my old self in no time!" He made a face. "You sound too much like England, you know that?"

"I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing." Canada said softly.

"Mostly just an annoying thing." America grabbed his bag and started off down the hill.

"Great." Canada sighed again and followed after.

Even his boss could be extremely disheartening at times.

"Sometimes I feel that this country got too big too fast." America halted at the slightly open door to the Oval Office. He'd been called in by his boss and had arrived surprisingly early. He lingered uncertainly outside the door, head cocked slightly to listen in.

"A recession, bank bailouts, stimulus packages…are we solving the problem or just prolonging the crash?"

There was no return reply so America assumed his boss was talking to himself. Or perhaps he was turning into England and holding conferences with imaginary creatures straight out of the pages of Harry Potter.

"Being at the top just isn't the same as it used to be—"

Deciding that he had heard enough, America bit his lip and knocked firmly on the door.

"Boss? You called for me?" He asked steadily as his poked his head into the room.

There was a look of surprise in the dark eyes. "You're early. Did you just get here?"

"Yep." America smiled brightly, pushing away the dark thoughts.

"Well come in then."

Still grinning, America stepped into the famous office and closed the door softly.

.

.

.

America considered himself relatively well tempered, but there was something unpleasant that bubbled beneath the surface any time another nation 'casually' dropped a piece of advice.

They smiled at him (_as if_ they actually meant _well_) and he returned the expression (_as if_ he would actually_ listen_). They didn't understand. He was a _Super_ Power. How could they expect him to listen to _their _advice? It all seemed very backwards to him. But that's how most cultures—except his _of course_—were.

At the end of a long day of meetings and cranky bosses, complete with brief stolen moments of passion in a White House closet—England insisted that they start putting labels on the doors—America collapsed in bed exhausted and thankfully for once, alone.

The silence that came with night hung heavily in the dark room—disturbed only by the faint ticking of the miniature Big Ben that served as his bedside clock. It had been a so called 'anniversary' gift, even though neither him nor England enjoyed the word.

Now he watched it—every night he watched it—the time hands barely visible as they moved across the circular face.

Minutes passed by, turning into hours, the sickening feeling in his gut increasing with each _tic tock_.

Was there a countdown out there for him? The idea was_ almost _as terrifying as ghosts.

Was it the same countdown that had brought the doom of all the empires that had preceded him?

He would _never_ say it out loud, but America knew that time was ticking.

Time was running out.

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**A/N:** I had some formatting issues but hopefully everything turned out O.K. Reviews, alerts, etc. They are all loved~ Wrath is up next. That shouldn't be too hard to guess.

With love

-dancer


	4. Hungary: Wrath

**A/N:** Like most of you guessed, Wrath was initially supposed to be Russia, but after reading one particular review about how it was nice that I used characters that didn't typically fit the sin, I decided to switch it to Hungary. Also I _**adore **_Austria/Hungary and I can't let a chance to write them slip through my fingers, lol. So please enjoy~

**Edit:** I _really_ didn't like how this chapter went the first time so I decided to clean it up and re-upload it.

**Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine**.

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_Seven Sinners:_

_Hungary_

_Wrath_

If she was alone with time to think she would often ponder the nature of the anger. Sometime she wondered if it would best be called Anger—capital letter and all.

In her youth—when she had held the ideals of that of a boy—it had burned hot and untempered. It had been the force that guided her arrows, ensuring that each met its mark. Over time it had cooled, but not receded. It say heavy within her—a constant companion.

Most of the time it was in a state that she referred to as cold anger (Anger). It was a still and silent rage. An itch she couldn't scratch. It haunted her steps like a malevolent wraith and lurked in the peripheries of her vision.

She knew when it turn hot. When the rhythmic pounding in her temples began and the red haze obscured her vision. She was no stranger to this passionate fury that could rise up at the faintest trigger.

She did not fear her anger.

No.

She _embraced _it.

.

.

.

The frying pan was her weapon of choice and with it she delivered swift justice. Battle calloused hands gripped the metal handle firmly, shoulder muscles contracting and relaxing as she raised the pan above her head and then brought it down in a smooth motion to crash against the skull of her enemy.

Today, said enemy was Prussia who now lay still on the elegantly crafted rug—a deep bruise already forming among the silver locks at the point of impact.

"You didn't have to do that." The small smile on Austria's face said otherwise as he gazed down at the body on his floor. "I could have sent him away myself."

"It was faster this way." Hungary grinned, fingers twitching slightly as she half hoped that Prussia would sit back up and give her another reason to implement the weapon she so loved.

.

.

.

The anger had come upon her the instant she had stepped through the polished wood doors of Austria's house and had heard _his_ voice as he harassed the man whom love had appointed her to protect.

"Isn't France looking for you? You two are together, are you not? Go bother him." Austria's voice—though heavy with irritation—had still made Hungary's heart skip a beat as she had neared the main hall. That voice that answered had immediately destroyed these pleasant feelings.

"Together? Nah, I wouldn't go _that_ far. Even though I don't blame you for thinking so, cause I'm so awesome and everything. Who _wouldn't_ want to be with me? The fact that you've been resistant to my charm all these centuries is completely unbelievable. I should have had you on your knees years ago."

Hungary could imagine Austria wincing and she had accurately guessed his reply as he said, "Please don't say such vulgar things. Now, I would appreciate it if you leave. I'm very busy."

With the furious heat already coursing through her body, Hungary had slipped into the kitchen, pieces of conversation still reaching her ever alert ears.

"God you're such a bore. You're almost as bad as West. Not that I'm surprised or anything since you guys live together." There was a pause and Hungary had almost burst through the wall screeching at the next comment. "The sex must be really good."

How _dare_ he make such a suggestion? Although she herself had entertained similar fantasies in secret, to hear it from his filthy mouth completely ruined the erotic images and scenarios that she had created in her head.

"Don't make such presumptions!" Austria had gasped—the offended tone in his voice clear.

Prussia had laughed at this, the cackling sounds only adding to Hungary's fury. She had crept towards the main hall with the swift silence of the trained warrior she was, frying pan securely in hand.

"Don't lie to the awesome me! But hey, if West isn't up to your standards, I'm free. At least until France gets back from trying to have a threesome with America and England…don't think he'll have much luck there though. We don't even have to tell that crazy girlfriend of yours-"

It was here that Hungary had delivered the blow, leaving Prussia in an unconscious heap.

"I'm trying out a new cake recipe." Austria said finally as he noticed Hungary's increasing agitation. Without a distraction he didn't know how long she would be satisfied with Prussia being simply unconscious.

And the carpets had already been washed this week.

"That sounds lovely." Dropping the frying pan, Hungary followed Austria to the kitchen, barely resisting the urge to deliver one last kick to the still immobile Prussia.

There would be time when he woke up.

_Cold Anger_. It bubbled calmly beneath the surface.

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**A/N:** I love Prussia, but he's so fun to abuse. Review, favorite, subscribe, etc. I love everything. Greed is up next. Let the guessing game begin~

With love

-dancer


	5. China: Greed

**A/N: **My writing has been a little off and I hope this chapter doesn't come off too bad. I struggled. But please enjoy~

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is not mine.

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_Seven Sinners:_

_China_

_Greed_

He would take England first.

In his opinion the island nation had always been too whiny, too critical…too _annoying_.

The box containing the miniature Chinese flags sat next to the world map. China reached in and carefully selected just the right one, running a pale finger over the smooth edge of the pin.

Easily locating England on the map, he pushed the pin into place, feeling a slight ripple of pleasure at the sound of it sliding through the paper.

Next would be France.

That country was an immoral wasteland of sickening foods that they tried to pass off as 'delicacies.' As China marked the country with a pin, he imagined how he would tear down the bistros and the restaurants. The Seine would be overflowing with baguettes once he was through.

And the cheese would go to the furnace.

Germany, Spain, or Italy next? He would have all three, but order was important.

So it would be Germany first. After all, it seemed he did nothing except cause the world problems. The sting of the whip would be too little punishment for him, but China filed these thoughts away for later. He didn't have time for that. The whole world was laid out before him.

For him to take.

Italy next. How would that hurt Germany—his lover, his friend—to join him in perpetual bondage? It almost brought a smile to China's lips.

_Almost_.

One by one, the pins filled the map. Europe would be his playground.

He had never been skiing before.

A pin marked Switzerland.

They seemed useless to him, all rock and barren land, but the fact that they existed was enough for China.

The colorful flags colored the Nordic nations.

What to do with Russia? He was not as simple as the others. China frowned, twirling the small pin between his fingers. It was not a matter of trust and love was certainly not a factor. No. It was the…understanding they shared between each other that stayed China's hand.

_But only for today, _he thought as he replaced the pin. There was always tomorrow. Tomorrow he would take what he wanted.

A pin slid into India and so began the decoration of the East.

Until he got to Japan. Like Russia, simple domination was not appropriate.

.

.

.

China would _break_ Japan. Break him until he couldn't stand and he begged to sit down. Break him until he cried that sitting was too painful and he needed to lie down. Break him until the floor would not relieve him of his pain.

China wanted…he _wanted_ to hear him suffer. He _wanted_ to hear the screams_. _He _wanted_ to hear the pleading. He _wanted_ Japan. _So much_.

He wanted _so much_.

The pin slid into place. All the pins were in place.

Except for America.

China smiled. He knew how the other nation felt about him. He practically radiated paranoia at the world meetings when he sat across from China, fixing him with a look that said clearly _"I know what you're doing"._

_And you can't stop me._

The door to the room suddenly flew open, snapping China from his dark thoughts.

"Brother, I've been looking for you! Is this where you've been hiding the whole time? You know, I invented hiding." Korea walked casually into the room, ignoring the heavy atmosphere and the furious look on China's face.

"This is a private room, Korea. Get. Out." China hissed between clenched teeth.

"Don't be like that brother, I just wanted to visit. What are you working on anyway? Another version of Shinatty-chan?" Korea plopped down on the chair opposite China, setting his elbows on the table, examining the map with a look of innocent curiosity. "Oh, a map. What's with all the flags? Why are they all over the other countries?"

Knowing that Korea was the last person to ever understand China's wants, he decided that revealing to him his plan would do nothing to affect it.

"These are the countries that will one day be mine, aru. I want the world Korea. The _whole_ world."

The information did nothing to phase the happy look on Korea's face. "Really? I invented world domination you know."

China grimaced and stood to leave. "I'm sure." He was almost to the door when the startled cry came from behind him.

"Hey brother, Korea has been completely cut out of this map!"

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**A/N:** I'll probably come back to this chapter later to edit it like crazy, but for now I'll leave it as is. Gluttony is next. That should be _very_ easy ;)

with love

-dancer


	6. Italy: Gluttony

**A/N: **I love my reviewers. You guys are awesome. I definitely feel that some of the feedback you guys have given me has helped me improve my writing of this story. Thanks~

I had to do some extra thinking to write this chapter but when I started writing it flowed pretty easily. Only one more to go after this!

Enjoy~

**Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine. This story is.**

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_Seven Sinners:_

_Italy_

_Gluttony  
_

What Italy enjoyed the most about food was that it was always there. Unless he neglected to go shopping—and he _never_ forgot something that important—he could always count on the fridge being full when he opened those steel doors. Food—unlike _some_ people—didn't get up and walk out the door.

"Why do you have to leave?" Italy pulled the bed covers over his head, shielding himself against the brisk morning chill. He hadn't remembered opening the window last night, but with sex on the brain, he didn't often remember much.

Germany didn't seem to mind the cold. It had been at least 5 minutes since he had rolled out of bed and he was _still_ looking for his shirt.

Or maybe he was just being a tease…

From beneath his cocoon of covers Italy watched the way the muscles stretched and flexed in the dim morning light as Germany searched through the pile of clothes on the floor. They hadn't been wearing that many layers. In another 5 minutes the search was going to reach the point of ridiculous.

"Because I have to meet with my boss." Germany had finally located his shirt underneath the pants he had slid off if Italy's skinny hips the night before. Buttoning it quickly, he attempted to smooth out the birds nest that was his hair.

"Why can't your boss come here?" Italy whined, sinking deeper into the blankets. Germany paused his…primping to give him a familiar look of irritation.

"You know why I can't do that." He said turning back to the mirror. "Not only is it inappropriate, but she still hasn't forgiven you for the last time."

"You always _leave_."

"I always come _back_."

Italy leaned over to grab the sleeve of Germany's shirt. Germany fought the strong pang of guilt as he met those pleading brown eyes.

"Don't leave." Italy said.

Germany sighed. "I can't stay here forever. We have responsibilities Italy."

Italy tightened his grip. "I don't want you to go." He suddenly smiled. "There's so much that we can do. We can play football and if you don't want to eat pasta then we can even cook some of those nasty sausages you like so much."

Germany easily freed the sleeve of his shirt. "We can do that when I get back. If you can't wait, call your brother."

Italy pouted at being so easily shrugged off and fell back onto the bed.

"Romano never wants to do anything. He's so _lazy_." He said.

"Well I can't help you there." Despite the urgency of the morning, Germany leaned down for a kiss goodbye. A mistake, because Italian farewells were never brief. Minutes later he finally managed to disentangle himself.

"Please." Italy tried one last time.

Germany picked his bag off the floor. "I'm already late. I can't afford to waste any more time. I'll be back soon. I promise." The sound of the front door click as it closed was the sound Italy liked least in the world.

And he heard it more than he ever wanted.

Was it selfish, the way he wanted to keep Germany to himself? He could never have enough of the other nations company and his departures on these cold early mornings left a sizable ache in Italy's gut.

An ache he knew only one way to fill.

Rolling out of bed, he pulled on the pants that Germany had neatly folded before he left. Fully clothed, he walked down the stairs to the kitchen, the irrational part of his mind half-hopping that Germany would be sitting at the table—coffee and newspaper in hand.

Was it _unreasonable_ to want to be with someone all hours, minutes, seconds of the day? How about forever? Because time with Germany was what Italy craved.

But cravings could be treated in more ways than one.

Italy opened the fridge doors and as expected, the food was there. It was always there.

It brought him relief. Something to soothe the ache.

But not satisfaction. _No, not that_, he thought as he laid his feast out on the table.

Only Germany could bring him that.

But what is satisfaction to one who cannot be contented?

An emptiness that can never be filled.

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**A/N:** So only Sloth is left. I always love your guesses, but you have guys** have** to get this one. I can't even say anymore because I've already given it away XD

Reviews, alerts, etc. I love everything.

with love

-dancer


	7. Romano: Sloth

**A/N: **I feel extremely efficient. Not only was I able to finish this chapter so quickly, but I even got the first chapter of the sequel done as well. I'll probably crash for a few days after this, haha. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, etc. I actually dedicate this chapter to **vinnie2757** for just being awesome in general. Thanks for everything.

I also wanted to add that I was extremely disappointed in some of you. I handed you the answer about this chapter on a silver platter and some of you still guessed Greece. I still love you all though. So please enjoy~

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, just this story.**

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_Seven Sinners:_

_Romano_

_Sloth_

The broom was an inanimate object and it was completely stupid and illogical to hate it.

_If so, _thought Romano as he stared at it from across the room, _then why do I want to snap it in half and shove it through a wood chipper?_

He had barely been listening when Spain said he was stepping out for a few minutes. Romano's selective hearing had only picked up 'cheese' and 'dinner', which was enough to get him to nod his head to whatever else was included in the message. But after the door closed and the minutes began ticking by, the rest of the conversation unfurled itself slowly in Romano's brain.

There had been something about a mess…somewhere. Romano couldn't remember the exact location. Had it been the kitchen? Or the maybe the sitting room? He considered the bedroom for a split second but dismissed the thought. No, that was a different mess.

It had to be the kitchen because Romano suddenly remembered that crumbs had been involved. Crumbs and dust. And pasta sauce.

So the kitchen it was.

The broom had been mentioned as well and Romano felt a righteous fury just thinking about the damnable object with its polished wooden handle and perfectly even bristles.

"I don't like you." Romano hissed from his chair. The broom seemed to stare back indifferently, making him even angrier.

Although Romano was no longer a servant in his house, Spain sometimes asked him to lend a hand with the cleaning.

"You practically live here. Would it kill you to help keep it clean?" Spain often said.

Yes. Yes it would.

It was so much trouble, cleaning. There was too much involved. Too much getting up, too much walking about, too much putting away, too much…movement.

"If I get up a lamp might fall over or the bookcase could collapse. Then everything would become even more troublesome. It's much better if I just stay here." Romano said out loud.

The broom, being the only other significant presence in the room, did not answer back but continued to simply…stare.

Romano scowled at it. "I know what you're doing. Don't you dare judge me or I'll rip every fucking one of those bristles out one by one."

The broom wasn't phased by the threat.

"Why am I even talking to a broom?" But the whole situation was as thrilling as it was insane so Romano continued anyway.

"I'm not lazy. I could get up right now and clean this whole damn house. I'm not going to because what's the use, it's just going to get dirty again." Romano frowned, becoming more and more agitated. "People always want to keep things neat—like that stupid potato bastard. They spend so much time putting things together even though they're just going to fall apart again."

The broom was still, of course, silent.

"I don't expect you to understand. Hell, I don't even expect you to _answer_. It's just that I don't get to talk…like this often." Romano sighed, running a hand though dark locks.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm wasting away. Everything is just so pointless. So repetitive and stupid. What does it matter what I do? How I feel? It doesn't change anything. Isn't it just easier to do nothing?"

The broom almost looked thoughtful. It was good enough for Romano so he kept talking.

"He does everything like it's so easy. Like when he smiles or laughs. As if they take no effort at all. I don't understand how he does that."

Romano dropped his head into his hands, aware that he wasn't talking about just cleaning anymore. "It's so hard and I'm so tired of it all."

He raised his head to look at the still immobile broom. "What's hard? Love. That's what's hard. It's so much work and effort. How does he make is seem so simple? I'm much better without it."

"I could walk out that door right now and never come back. Don't think I won't."

But he wouldn't because even though there were a lot of things that Romano wouldn't do, like the laundry or the dishes, love was a struggle he thought that maybe, just _maybe_ he might be willing to endure.

Because as annoying as the whole thing was, without it—without love—life seemed even more pointless and stupid.

"Romano, I'm back." Spain's ever cheerful voice came from the door. He poked his head into the room, that ever present smile in place. "Wanna help me cook?"

Romano reclined deeper into his chair. "No." He said shortly. Spain sighed.

"Do you ever do anything Romano?" He asked.

_I love you and that's enough for me.

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**A/N:** And that's the end. Hope you guys enjoyed it. To be honest, this chapter and Greed were the hardest for me to write. I'm sure it shows...But let's not dwell on that. Thanks again to all supporters of this story. Couldn't have done it without all your awesome feedback. I'll be posting the spin off, **Twisted Angels**, tomorrow. It deals with the Seven Heavenly Virtues and hopefully it's as enjoyable as this story. The first chapter is Patience. I want to hear your guesses!

with love

-dancer


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